Fixed
by teabizarre
Summary: The first pangs of love were usually the sweetest. Unless you were Lord Voldemort, and your soul had to put itself together again first. TomxLuna
1. Chapter 1

Fixed

1.

The first pangs of love were usually the sweetest. Unless you were Lord Voldemort, and your soul had to put itself together again first.

Tom Riddle hit the floor with a mundane finality, his body feeble and shrunken, the white hands empty, the snake-like face vacant and unknowing.

But:

In the one second, long and short all at once, before he died, in the second he knew that he was _going_ to die (this was it, here it comes, this cannot be), he thought about something. He didn't think it because he was going to be killed. It just seemed to be a natural thing to think about, and there was a relief in finally allowing himself to think about it, in that space of time between worlds—it was the inevitability of things that set the thought free.

He remembered a face. He didn't know why he was thinking about it, and _now_, of all times—there was enough space in that long, short second for him to think that, too—but there it was. He remembered a name. He put them together and wondered what that feeling was. It was new.

Maybe that was just the way you felt, when you were about to die. He thought this, too. Maybe that was death: this feeling.

It wasn't so bad.

Then there was a blinding green light that filled all his senses and then the pain hit the air.

It was like burning but worse; being hit by power of such immenseness you couldn't comprehend. There were no words to articulate it. Only screaming could do it justice, but Tom Riddle had no mouth left to scream with and no body left to writhe. Just these particles of soul and a feeling he didn't understand.

There'd been something he'd wanted to do. This was what agonized him.

* * *

"Tom?"

He wasn't alone here. He hadn't realized there was a _here_—all there was, was the pain. But it was less now, and worse; less because the crushing weight of it was gone, worse because now the feeling was inside his chest, around his heart.

His heart. But he was dead, wasn't he?

The place was whiteness. He stared around, looking for the source of the voice. As he looked, he found he could _see_, and that there were things _to_ see. He recognized this place. It was the Great Hall, but it was much, much lighter.

He found the source of the voice, standing on the raised portion where the teachers' table stood.

"Dumbledore?"

Albus Dumbledore stared at him with something like satisfaction.

"Yes," he responded. "The Great Hall? For Harry it was King's Cross."

"Harry?" Tom repeated. He felt that this name should have significance to him. There was a pressure around it he couldn't explain: a desperation and a purposeful euphoria.

Dumbledore peered at him, considering. It was odd: instead of becoming more familiar, his features were becoming more alien. Unknown. And that was strange—Tom was sure he knew this man. Loathed him.

"Harry Potter? He lives," Albus Dumbledore said, adding the latter as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

"What are you talking about? Where am I? What—what happened?"

His voice rang out, forceful and full of an authority he didn't understand.

Dumbledore considered him again and then smiled. The smile was sudden and brilliant; like someone realizing something they'd known all along, but hadn't quite understood.

"Some things, I suppose, won't change. But I'm sure some will. Some, if not most. Oh, don't be troubled, boy," he added, "I had to die to understand it. I don't think you'll remember this," he continued, looking around him fondly. "The reconnection..."

"The what?" Tom didn't understand, and the Great Hall was becoming slurred, turning back to just whiteness.

"Just tell me one thing," the man said, curiosity sparkling in his light blue eyes. "What was it that you regretted?"

Tom scrambled to think; this he must remember, this he ought to know. It was the last memory.

The last memory of what?

Who. Of who.

He remembered her face and her voice and her name. At least, he thought he did.

"Luna?" he whispered into the whiteness, and then everything was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

He woke with a start. The ground beneath him was sodden; he could feel the damp against his bare skin. He sat up into pitch darkness and the stirring of cold wind in trees. There were no sounds but his breath and the breeze.

Nausea swarmed his senses but there was nothing in his system—he dry heaved for several moments before he managed to pull himself off the ground. He shivered violently. Cradling his arms around his torso, he stared into the shadows.

Whatever was familiar about this place was being pulled away from him. He could _feel_ it go. He tried to hang on to it—onto this knowledge he _knew_ he was supposed to have, but it was like grasping at thin air. All he had left, as he looked around, was an urgent sense of deja vu.

It was so dark, and the place so familiar. But what had happened here?

He felt uneasy, like he should leave, no, _flee_, and so he began stumbling through the trees. They sat together thickly and he headed for where he could see the most light. It wasn't much more than a glimmer. As he approached, he could hear new sounds.

A few voices—some guarded and some furious, all speaking together in rapid currents. He stopped, listening intently, trying to stifle his gasping breath. It was a eerie feeling: while he recognized most of the voices he didn't know the speakers. The hair stood up on his arms when a calm voice—calm, and young—interrupted the others.

"It was the only home he knew, too," the voice said. It was a boy or a young man.

There were a few rebellious mutters. "I don't know, Harry," a deep, slow voice said. "Dumbledore is buried here. It would make people unhappy."

But Harry was insistent. "We'll bury him in the forest. No one has to know he's here," he added. "I just think...it's what Dumbledore would have done," he added, clearly defending himself against a scathing look.

"I understand what you mean," a female voice contributed. Her tone was soothing. "But after what's happened tonight—"

"I think that after what's happened tonight," another male voice interrupted, "Harry has more right than anyone to decide what to do with—with _him_."

There was a pause, then the deep, slow voice consented. "Ron is right. If that's what you want, Harry, we'll do it."

Harry was quiet a few moments. "Okay. Thank you," he added, self-consciously. "I know it's not what—what some would want. But it's only right," he added softly, more to himself than anyone else.

"The forest?" the female voice prompted, after another pause, this one longer. In saying so, she gave her consent, and this was reflected in Harry's voice when he spoke again.

"Yes. As deep as we can. No, it's okay, I'll do it." He muttered a spell and there was a shimmer and an uncomfortable sidestepping, and then footsteps crunching through the undergrowth.

He sunk into the depths of the shadows, waiting with baited breath for them to pass. This, for some reason, annoyed him: the hiding, but also the presence of these people so close to him. He had no wand, and he was naked. The vulnerability stung.

He did the only thing that seemed logical, though his gut screamed at him: he followed after them. It wasn't difficult—they walked brusquely, unafraid of detection. He thought he understood this. The danger was now past, though he didn't know _what_ danger. All these little jarrings were becoming more and more faint and, increasing in direct relation, was that urgent sense of deja vu.

They stopped a few minutes later. He crept closer, keeping to the shadows. He could see them now. It was a small troop: four teenagers, one of whom was hovering what looked like a corpse—it hung in the air, limp, lifeless, disturbingly fragile. There were also two men—a tall black man with a shaven head, and a gangly one whose hair was the same colour as two of the teenagers'.

The black man didn't pause. He stepped from the group and brandished his wand, cleaving a wide, deep gash in the ground. The boy directed the shroud into the cleft, and then dropped it. There was a very faint thud as the body sunk into the dirt before the black man swept the dirt over the hole to make a slight mound.

"Should we mark it?" a girl with bushy brown hair asked.

The boy named Harry considered. He was filthy—matted hair, face streaked with dirt. The others were in similar condition. Many of them sported bruises and congealed blood.

"I know," he said, and dug in his pockets. After a moment he withdrew a second wand, which he held out for the others to inspect. "His wand."

"The phoenix core?" the red-haired girl asked. She stood closely beside him.

"Yes. He still had it on him," Harry added, per explanation, as the others looked confused.

Something in his center jolted. He wanted to rush from his hiding place and reclaim the wand. It felt like it should be his; it felt like it was part of him. But something told him to wait, a caution that was quickly fading...

"We'll put it here," he continued. He'd created a small fissure in the earth and dropped the wand into it, then scraped it shut with his hands. "I think that's as much recognition as we should give him."

"I think you're right, Harry," the gangly man said. He rubbed at his eyes behind his glasses. He was clearly exhausted, and sorrow outlined his face.

"Let's go back," the red-haired girl suggested. "Everything else can wait. I think you've sorted out as much as you can tonight," she added. Harry had looked like he wanted to protest, but gave up.

"Yeah. Yeah, I suppose..."

Their voices and footsteps faded slowly. Only when he was alone with the dead did he straighten from his crouch. He moved quickly to the damp grave, considering. Then he pushed a hand into the dirt.

It was right there, waiting for him, like he was entitled to it. He didn't understand the feeling that coursed through him. It felt like power, joy...but fiercer than that. Much fiercer. He tightened his hand around the shaft of wood and red sparks fizzled from the tip.

The phoenix-core. He frowned—this was important, he sensed that it was important. But it was already gone. All there was, was him in this forest...him and a dead man in a shroud.

The movement felt natural to him. He didn't have to work at it to remember; it was like it was embedded far deeper than anything else, rooted to his very core. The other memories were like sand or water, running through his fingers. Not this. This was knowledge, and he acted on it.

He swished the wand and the dirt moved, pulling up into a brown cloud before plopping down beside the grave. He crouched before dropping himself into the hole. He hesitated for a moment before bending down to lift the shroud.

He tried not to look at the body, though he caught involuntary glimpses of pale, shrunken flesh as he pulled back the cloth and unfastened the cloak and robes of the dead man. It all felt very familiar to him, this, which unnerved him. He worked quickly and a few moments later, panting and damp with perspiration, he pulled himself out of the gorge.

He replaced the dirt and silently thanked the dead man for his gifts before departing into the dark night.

A/N: THANK YOU FOR THE GREAT REVIEWS! =D Please keep them coming, I'd love to hear what you think.


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